as i prepare for my meeting at noon,
the clicking of my typewriter
is met with the ticking
of my old grandfather’s clock.
it sits across from my desk,
illuminated by the office window.
its sixty eyes watch
as our hands are at work.
its hands shine like spinning knives
under the glow of the morning sun.
they act as quickly as my own
as they move dexterously across the keys.
my hands move faster
as i try to match the pace of the clock,
which seems to surpass me.
it mocks me,
its gleaming hands pointing upwards,
further illuminated
by the sun at high noon.